Stained
by kimmiesjoy
Summary: Their bodies connect, hard and fast, the forward motion bringing them in close and they repel each other instantly. The two cups of coffee in his hands collide directly with her chest and Beckett lets out a yelp. One Shot Set Season Two during The Fifth Bullet.


**A/N:** I've been re-watching from the pilot and this wouldn't stop bugging me until it was written. :D So, to Jessie for watching with me and to Indie for 1am internet virus saves! I'm torn on the rating so if this needs to go up to an M give me a yell and I'll fix it. Thank you for reading :)

* * *

**The fifth bullet.**

* * *

"A girl can dream." She grimaces at the boys, pushing up and away from her desk needing a break from the insanity of the case, amnesiac witnesses and missing bullets, a break from theories that make no sense and too quiet absentee writers.

Where has he gone?

Jumping to her feet, Beckett swings herself around her chair with a smile and a longing for hot coffee and a few moments of alone time in the break room. Maybe a quick check to figure out what mischief Castle has gotten himself into this time and she lets the tiniest grin escape across her lips, not looking where she's going, not expecting to need to, and bumping straight into the over eager writer.

Their bodies connect, hard and fast, the forward motion bringing them in close and they repel each other instantly. The two cups of coffee in his hands collide directly with her chest and Beckett lets out a yelp. A deep dark _oof_ of surprise coming from Castles mouth as he hits her full force. An eruption in an amber cascade rains down on both of them as the clumsy writer grunts and immediately drops his eyes to her soaked white cotton shirt front.

Beckett flinches for the burn, feels nothing but the heat in her cheeks and she waits, expecting the heat of the liquid to hit her in cold flash that fades to fiery roar.

Nothing comes, just the clammy feel of damn cotton against her skin, trickling low in her cleavage and soaking through her bra.

No heat just the barely there warmth that she doesn't associate with coffee or Castle.

She looks up at the feel of his focus on her, his intense stare -bordering on ogling now - and she lifts her head with resignation. Caught out he lowers his gaze fast, eyes sliding down the front of her body in silent appreciation that she can feel over every inch of her skin.

She swallows past the flare of awareness that has nothing to do with the dampness of cloth and the sharp jolt of her body, watching as his eyes deviate from their slow perusal of her body and he checks himself out, assessing the damage.

"I brought you coffee." He explains unnecessarily, inanely, his voice low with wariness and apology. His eyes widen, just the smallest fraction, the blue within fiercer through the center with the innocence of his act yet darker at the outer rims, pulling her in.

She keeps her eyes on him, even as she lifts on to her toes, the slow drip of liquids skating now across her stomach and making its way to the waist of her pants. His heated appreciation is still dancing across her soaked shirt front, still drawn to the rapidly spreading stretch of translucent material that covers her breasts, and the liquid is cold - she knows that - but it feels as though steam is rising from her skin.

She looks down at her shirt, pulls the cold white, and now brown cotton, away from her and flinches as the rich aroma assails her senses, the closeness of his body and the heated scent making her eyelids stutter to stay open.

"Thank you, Castle." Beckett responds, not really knowing what else to say as she walks away, sucking the coffee droplets from the back of her fingers as she goes. Imagining for a second the lips that touch her skin aren't her own.

She tries to ignore the turn of his head and the angular tilt of his neck that she knows means he's watching her walk away, the white material plastered to skin and leaving her somewhat exposed, but his gaze burns into her hotter than any liquid, leaving a scorching path in its wake.

* * *

He waits a few seconds, the front of his shirt sticking to the muscles in his abdomen, guilt and desire battling it out in his head as he thinks about the intricate patterns droplets of coffee can make on her skin and how white really does suit her when he can see through to the white lace of her bra beneath.

He feels like a lecherous creep for a few seconds.

He only meant to bring her coffee to help ease the stress of the case, not shower her in it. Now all he can think about is that rosy pink flash of skin that runs along the edge of the chain that carries her mothers ring, the long lines of her collar bones glistening with caffeine.

How spilling coffee all over her changes the color, tone and - he imagines - texture of her silky looking epidermis, and how the almost crystalline flush fell down the column of her neck in cherry-red disarray and tumbled out of sight between her -

"Castle?"

His head snaps up and he blinks in confusion as Esposito points out a splash of coffee he's missed and Ryan hands him some more paper towels.

He wipes the floor, thankful that in his haste to help solve the case - and possibly daydreaming a bit - he somehow screwed up and made their drinks cooler than normal.

Castle feels fine, wet but fine and he doesn't think he burnt her.

His eyes linger over the hallway she fled down and he wonders if she's alright.

He really should go after her and check.

* * *

She practically skips along the hall, considering the restroom in passing before dismissing the idea and heading for the lockers instead, desperate to get the sodden mass of clothing away from her, and to get out of the path of prying eyes.

Not just the eyes of the boys, mocking in their slow sweep of her shirt and shaking their heads like she should know better.

Not just the Uni's that swerve past her - the normally extremely well presented and put together Detective Beckett - with their eyes wide and smirks barely hidden.

No, not just these eyes but his eyes.

Writer eyes that still - even though she left him at her desk cleaning up the mess - trip trail over her skin. Eyes that simmer too vividly in her memory, too blue and too fervent as they took her in, saw through her and left her feeling open, naked under his gaze and hot.

So very hot!

It was an accident, a stupid accident and she's letting him get to her. Castle and the smell of coffee making her too aware of the flare in her chest whenever they are alone together, the tumble her stomach takes when he makes her laugh and the way her heart clenches when the corners of his eyes crinkle. She is steadfastly ignoring it all.

It was an accident and it's too much and all together nothing at all that she wants to be thinking about.

Her chest is stinging, burning in a way that has nothing to do with the splash of not-so-hot coffee, in fact the liquid was barely lukewarm but it's nothing serious, he didn't scald her, just shocked her.

Shocked her with the feel of his eyes on her skin and the sharp contraction of pupils that lingered across her exposed chest.

Beckett shakes her head and fumbles with the door of her locker, suddenly relieved that on occasion her job can get a little messy - more messy than coffee spillages - and her current predicament will be resolved with the fresh shirt and bra she keeps as spares in her locker. A quick wash down in the adjacent restroom and she will be good as new.

She thumbs a button and catches sight of the stain and contemplates giving him her dry cleaning bill.

Goof.

She smiles to herself, undoing the buttons of the white shirt, slowly, one at a time to peel the material away from her skin before tugging the clean brown one from inside the locker and tossing it to the bench beside her.

Clumsy fool.

That's what he is for bumping into her with lukewarm coffee.

Why lukewarm she has no idea, just luck, she guesses.

Beckett grimaces and rips the shirt from her skin, cold, wet, clammy and disgusting. Coffee stains everything and she looks down at the shirt in her hands, the brown liquid leaching it's way into the white cotton.

She smirks when the idea pops into her head, that her life is stained with Castle the way her shirt is spattered with coffee.

Little bits of him weaving around her life, sneaking in where she least expects him. Bringing her coffee and making her smile.

Beckett grimaces, pushes away another flare of heated awareness and scrunches the shirt into a ball, tossing it behind her, not caring where it lands.

He enters so quietly she doesn't hear him at first, just feels the light breeze slip in through the open door and feather over her back, making her turn.

He's holding her shirt in his hands, staring down at it his eyes wide.

"Castle?" She startles, arms immediately wrapping around her chest to hide herself from his sight and she's about to yell at him to get out when she gets a proper look at his face.

He's worried.

He's worried for her and it takes her by surprise that she likes knowing that, hates seeing it on his face but still, something inside her flutters in response and she can't yell at him now.

Distress and concern burn bright in his eyes even as they close, his hand flying up to cover them, the other extending to her shirt and he stutters to explain, "I - you're not wearing - I'm sorry I just wanted to -"

Beckett whirls away, looking for the clean top to hide her semi naked state, turning around so fast that her leg collides with the bench and she yelps again, pain surging in her shin.

He's at her side in an instant, the hot searing pads of his fingers on her arms, palms cupping both elbows as he steadies her.

With her back to the locker his body looms over her and with anyone other than him she might feel vulnerable, but right now she feels nothing but the sweep of his thumbs on her forearms as Castle tries to soothe her.

She gasps at the contact, new unfamiliar and intense. Her neck snapping back, head lifting to seek him out and her eyes wide when they connect with his, the breath of shock escaping through her lips and colliding with his own.

"Did I hurt you?" He asks. The noise she makes adding to his belief that she's in pain, that he caused it and she can see it all in his eyes. The way her shudder at his touch is misread, his eyes licking a path over her, invading every inch in his needy perusal of her supposed pain.

The deep oceanic blue of his eyes that hover just millimeters from her own, so deeply penetrating that she blinks furiously, blinks back the sudden and shocking urge that she wants him to do more than look.

She wants Castle to touch her - not just the tender ministrations of his worried fingers - and though the idea isn't really all that new to her the desperation to make it happen is. That hot flare through her gut and the twist of excitement lower between her legs most definitely is.

He watches, assesses, investigates her state of being with the forceful press of blue to green, of concern to surprise. He can see her swallow, watches and reads her wrong, takes in her desire as confirmation.

He hurt her. He truly believes he did and he looks so contrite, so unlike her annoying tag along and so much more like the man that has started haunting her dreams on a regular basis. Desperate to fix it and she gets lost because it's Castle.

Castle the joker, the ass and the womanizer, Castle her tentative partner and the man pressing her back into the grey lockers, stroking his fingers gently over the swell of flesh at her elbow.

_Castle._

The man whose dark shadow creeps through her bedroom late at night and plays into her midnight fantasies until she's a quivering mess of exhaustion and confusion. Sated and smoldering and sweaty, with the figment of Castle's hands beneath the sheets with her.

His eyes - at first holding her own like he can read every memory swamping her mind - slide south to stare at the parting of her lips and the heavy exhales suddenly leaving her mouth.

The gentle blue lies heavily on the red flush that runs from her neck, a purple haze of heat weaving around them like a heavy fog, invading oppressive and consuming.

His lips press together, lighten, whiten with the force of his teeth pressing down on the pliant skin and his head dips low, eyes focusing between the valley of her breasts the gush of blood below the skin, collecting there and spreading out across her abdomen.

Getting redder by the minute.

She shakes her head and if it wasn't for the color of her skin he might believe her, might believe that she's fine. But she can still see it, guilt, and Beckett shakes her head again, slower this time.

She sucks in a heavy, ragged breath when his fingers lift from her arm and she follows their path with the dip of her head.

A quick look up to his face freezes her, the sight of Castle with eyes that are full of guilt and worry for her isn't something she's used to.

Her chest lifts rapidly, breathing picking up speed with each blink of his unfaltering gaze giving her access to something else. Not just his ability to care, to be serious and concerned but something all together different than what she expects.

Something darker that speaks directly to her in silence when their eyes connect. He tells her with no words spoken that all she has to do is tell him to stop, to tell him to back off if she wants him to and that is all it will take.

It will end before it's begun, and if she says the word he will stop, of course he will.

But he doesn't want to!

He waits, waits, waits for her to utter the word and she can find nothing in her to tell him no, no part of her wants anything other than all of him.

His fingers hover over the skin of her neck, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from them and he licks his lips. Not moving save for the swallow that follows, the immediate dart of his tongue drawing her eyes to the bob of his Adams apple.

He smells rich and earthy, like standing in the forest just before spring, an undertone of something crisp and clean tangling with the breath of coffee that lifts from them both and she wants…

Wants to _taste_.

Him.

She wants to taste a little bit of_ everything_ just out of reach.

It makes her own lips press tight together, suppressing the moans gathering at the back of her throat and when his thumb lifts the chain of her necklace away from her skin, slipping it over her shoulder and exposing more of her to his avid gaze, she arches back closing her eyes.

The touch of his fingers at her chin startle her into opening them again, the brush of his little finger across the edge of her mouth making her bottom lip quiver and separate from its mate.

She looks up, an apology for the grip of her fingers, when they find purchase on his jacket, bleeding from her eyes and he catches it, bounces it back, everything done in silent understanding.

Her skin is burning, sizzling away not from the sting of semi warm coffee but from anticipation. Her heart racing, ribs aching and -

His palm drifts and lands over her collarbone, a heavy heated weight that presses her back further, lets him step in closer, his hips crowding hers, his knee driving into the space between her legs.

His fingertips trace the hollow of her throat, his mouth contracting and lips compressing as if he imagines dipping his tongue into the space inhabited by his fingers.

Their eyes collide again, the same thought shared by them both. There are other places his fingers could invade, other places he could chase with his tongue that are just as delicious. Maybe more so.

Her entire being breaks around the next shudder of breath that escapes her, his chest grazing the front of her white bra reminding her of how exposed she is, how much still lies between them and she wants it gone.

Her hands ache with the need to touch him and she moves, lets her palms slide up and under his jacket, caressing that damp coffee stained shirt front until he shivers.

The flush of her skin deepens, darkens to a vivid ferocious red that spreads to her cheeks she can feel the heavy flood of blood under her skin, flooding her muscles and tissues, opening them up, ripening everything with the ripple of desire and making her ache.

Ache everywhere.

Ache for_ him_.

She tugs at his shirt, thumbing the lowest button so that his hips jerk forward into her own and she groans. His body thrumming and alive in ways she's never felt before, the heavy press of him, hard and right and not enough.

"Castle." She almost hisses, hating the needful quake of her voice, hating and loving the smug lift of his lips in response.

It doesn't help that he's smug, that he knows she's enjoying it as much as he is. It makes it worse. Makes the fire rage further inside, burning and splintering through the deepest recesses of her mind, her body and her soul. It makes the flames lick her harder, deeper, more intensely - their eyes collide again, a breaking crash of swollen waves - just as he would.

He would break her into a million, tiny, sharp edged, fragmented pieces of ecstasy, right here in the locker room of the twelfth precinct. And she would let him.

Wants to let him.

The knowledge catches her off guard, her head tipping further back and her body singing with the desires that they exchange in each shared blink.

It presses at her nipples, hard aching peaks of need squirming against the thin material of her bra bringing stark awareness to her breasts and to the fact she's standing in front of him in her underwear, and his fingers are moving, moving closer, trailing down the center of her chest.

A hot, heavy rush of fire and warmth and lava like sensation spreading from her stomach, it flares bright white and red and pulsating, unbidden downwards making her squeeze her thighs together around his leg.

It pulls at her knees, tumbles lower and settles in the tingling of her toes.

It trickles and surges hard, fast and - her eyes roll in delight - heavy between her legs, at the apex of her thighs. A hot steady thudding, thumping pulse of blood and desire and pounding rhythm, that forcefully knocks aside all barriers and leaves her quivering in his arms.

His fingers touch her skin.

She starts when they do a little jump of shock when his fingers follow a trail of sweat down her chest and he opens against the cup of her bra, palming her through the coffee colored lace.

He groans, rocks into and chases the sliding sweat further down, tracing the outline of her belly button and dipping the tip of his little finger inside just to hear her gasp his name again.

She grabs his wrist as his mouth descends, everything in them reaching for each other, his mouth lingering over her own for the barest second.

In another time and place he could be licking the remnants of coffee from her skin.

In the dark recesses of her mind - where a naked writer and a spread eagled detective frequently play - he could suck it out of her belly button, lick it from her stomach and breasts.

She meets his eyes, her lips parting, tongue sliding across the seam in invitation and with a forceful shove - their fingers twined together -

"**_Beckett?_**"

There is a sharp rap at the door and she jumps, the cold damp clinging material of her shirt falling from her hand, the fingers that linger over her chest darting up to cover her mouth and the ones snaking between her legs pulling away too soon.

With a sharp breath of regret and loss Beckett opens her eyes to find herself alone in the locker room. Alone with nothing but her fading fantasy and the man himself outside calling to her.

"Beckett, you ok?" He bellows.

Him.

_Castle._

So close and just outside the door as she let her hands wander, all the while pretending they were his.

"I didn't burn you did I?"

She flinches when he uses the words conjured from her mind mid fantasy, a hot flare of desire shooting straight to the pit of her stomach. Her skin flushing again, too hot, she's too hot.

"I'm-" Her voice breaks and she clears her throat quickly, grabbing the towel from the top shelf of her locker and hastily covering herself, "I'm okay, Castle. Really." She calls out biting her lip and grimacing at the latent desire that she can feel coursing through the words.

She hopes he's oblivious.

"I- okay, I'm sorry."

"It's fine." She calls again trying to sounds breezy, airy, light and not at all like she wants to pull him in here with her like she imagined. Not like she wants to pin him against the nearest locker, rise up against his body and make him catch her in the wide warmth of his palms.

His voice isn't helping her push aside the fevered rush of her blood, far too close to the surface of her skin, and he speaks again, making it worse - he always makes it worse - "I made you another cup."

"That's- thank you. I'll be out in a minute." Beckett closes her eyes, heart pounding as she listens for the fall of his footsteps and shakes her head, tossing aside the fantasy, setting her heart to rights and waiting for the simmer in her blood to die off.

Pushing it away, just...not too far, the tender throb and tumble of desire through her veins leaves her wanting.

She'll save it for later.

Home alone, in the shower, and probably later in bed with a cup of coffee waiting on her nightstand so the smell can wrap around her and pull her further in, the ghost memory of his fingers playing over her body and staining her skin.

A girl can dream.


End file.
